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An image of frail alder made,
By Saxon workman soon decays,
Robbed of its varnish—if displayed
By the full lamp’s polluting blaze;
The cloth of England soon is soiled
By the peat fire—the sun is spoiled
By mists that gather in the sky
Of all his power and brilliancy;
A chair of oak—high soaring tree—
Crumbles to dust beside the sea!
When brightest shone her mien divine,
A transient stewardship was mine,
But in her charms—O fatal chance!
I have not an inheritance!
Well does the wretch know how to mar
Features as fair as Morvyth’s are!
Eithig, the dark, cold, ruthless wight,
Would rather that they were not bright;
Still with his mouth’s destructive haze
He blasts her beauty’s radiant blaze!
With bitterness of heart I mourn
Her faded form by anguish worn;
But worn and blighted, shrunk and sear,
Still will that form to me be dear!
God and St. Cadvan save her still,
In this extremity of ill;
In truth, she wants heav’n’s guardian care,
In this her need—she was too fair!

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